The Promises to Keep Affair
by RoseLight
Summary: Partners, professional and personal, face challenges. Set after the "15 Years Later Affair" TV movie.


THE PROMISES TO KEEP AFFAIR

following the "15 Years After Affair" movie

She floated toward him, a vision in white. Napoleon Solo swept her up into his arms, held her against his chest a moment, and tenderly brushed her forehead with his lips.

"Oh, Napoleon," she sighed, surrendering her body to his strength. "I can't keep this up much longer."

"Tell Illya," he insisted. "He's your husband. And a damn fine investigator, by training and instinct. He already knows something's up. He may even know what."

"Oh, no! " she was plainly horrified.

"And what excuse did you use this time? PTA meeting? Sick old Auntie?" His tone was mocking.

"And does your wife suspect?"

Napoleon looked uncomfortable. "It's easier for me to get away. Sales conferences, yknow. And I don't enjoy lying to Charlotte."

" 'By the way, darling, there's something I've been meaning to tell you about my best friend's wife...'" then Emily Kuryakin broke down.

Napoleon shook her shoulders gently so she would look at him. "You asked me to let you tell Illya first. I am trying to honor that."

"He trusts me. He needs me. I made so many promises. I meant every one. "

"Things happen."

"'Things happen'! ?" she repeated in a high choked voice.

"Tell Illya," he said it more kindly this time. "He'll understand. "

"That's what I'm afraid of," she whispered. "He's had so much pain in his life, Napoleon. How can I cause him more?"

Solo took both her hands. "We'll tell him together. Tonight."

"Not tonight, please. Nicky will be home from school. I planned to call Charlotte and have you and the girls over for supper."

His eyes softened at the mention of his daughters. "Any indication yet as to which of my fair ladies your son fancies?"

It was her first smile of their meeting. "You know they've been pledged since the cradle, and they all seem to take it quite naturally that somehow they'll end up together. It's become the standard family merger joke."

"Introducing me to Charlotte was your best work, and I am eternally grateful," he bowed extravagantly.

She smiled again, weakly. "I didn't want to. That was Illya's inspiration. I told him I loved you dearly, but you were an unrepentant wolf and I would not let you hurt my friend."

"And now we're hurting them both. We need to tell them, Em. Tonight. Together," Solo persisted.

Emily trembled. "Of course you're right. I just need the courage."

"You are the bravest soul I know," he whispered.

"Yeah, right."

They left the clinic together, she leaning against him, and his arm encircling her, strong and protective.

# # # # #

Illya Kuryakin knew Death. It had been a constant companion in his work, quick and violent and sparing no one. Sometimes he himself had been the agent of destruction; sometimes, just a more fortunate witness. But one did not dwell on it . It was simply an extreme occupational hazard, accepted, expected, and put out of mind lest concentration on the task at hand faltered, and increased Death's chances. In nearly twenty years at UNCLE, Illya Kuryakin had been very, very lucky.

He had married Emily late in life, already resigned from the dangerous job of balancing world peace on his intelligence and spare frame. She was younger-whatever had drawn her to the glum, blond-gray man remained a mystery to him. He simply thanked God that she had seen some magic that night, and continued to see it faithfully ever since.

But now Emily would leave him for Death, that final flirt. He had raped her of her health and wholeness, and would kidnap her forever beyond Illya's reach.

"I do not believe I can survive this," he confided quietly, steadily to Napoleon. "I cannot imagine my life-any life-without Emily."

"She's very concerned about you."

"Well, she should be. It's all her fault. She made me love her. She insisted I open my heart. She gave me life and now she's taking it away." He slammed down his fist. "I think I hate her."

"In all our years together, I don't think I've ever seen you this drunk," Solo reflected.

"Get used to it," Illya hiccupped and lay his head on the table.

Solo passed that remark as bitter and intoxicated, not a declaration of future intentions. It was not Illya's style.

"And you—" the Russian continued, "took her to doctors and clinics and the Great Uncle Agent never noticed..."

"It's what she wanted. She loves you very much," Solo cleared his throat. After all the years of partnership, honest emotional exchange still came hard. But he was banking that his partner would not remember their conversation tomorrow anyway.

# # # # #

Nicholas Kuryakin was a sweet, uncomplicated child, his mother thought warmly. He had his father's intellect and blond Slavic charm, but not his propensity to brood. He was smart and funny and sensitive. Emily knew Illya was devoted to their son, but since Nicky had become a teenager, his father had difficulty demonstrating his affection.

"Talk to your father," she urged Nick. "He loves you. He's so proud of you. Go to a movie. Play chess. Take a hike. You need to make a connection-"

And young Nick would bound out the door, to his own adventure elsewhere. Emily sighed. "Am I going to spend all his teen years acting as interpreter between these two?"

But now, Nick was a freshman at Columbia: honor student, track star, secret poet. Majoring in history, because it came so easily to him.

It was his second weekend home since his mother's news.

"Nick! Good to see ya home!"

The younger Kuryakin acknowledged the wave. "Hey, Uncle Napoleon."

Solo jogged up beside him. "Uh, Nick, your folks are gonna be, well, preoccupied for a while. I hope you know-"

"Yeah, yeah, I can count on you and Aunt Charlotte," he smiled more quickly than Illya. Emily's smile.

"Say, how come you're not named Napoleon?" It was their ritual greeting.

"And which of your girls is Illyanna?" Nick countered quickly.

Companionable silence fell between them as they jogged. Nick stopped hard against a tree. Napoleon reached him and they sucked in the sweet April air.

"I'm...uh...thinking of -" he panted "-considering dropping track for-" Nick stopped cautiously.

"Testing the waters with me, eh? Since when did I become the Kuryakin family confessor?"

"-for drama club. Dad'll flip."

Napoleon considered his response carefully. "Yknow, Nick, I think you might be surprised. Give the old man a chance. Illya was a fair thespian in his day."

Nick snorted. "Dad? show emotion? In public?"

"Oh, he could chew the scenery when it was necessary," assured Solo.

"Well, I spose it's easier to fake it than to feel it."

Did all parents of teens feel like foreign ambassadors? Solo's communications with his own offspring was complex because they were females. Adored but unfathomable. He didn't expect to understand them. But Nick was one of his own, yet it was like calling across some distant shore.

# # # # #

When Napoleon Solo announced that he intended to marry, folks who knew him were surprised. When he announced he intended to marry Charlotte McBride, they were VERY surprised.

Napoleon had favored statuesque blondes without PhD's or commitments. Charlotte was a petite, curly redhead who managed the family antique store. She was unfashionably old-fashioned in values and aspirations, variously described as 'steadfast' or 'stubborn.' But as Napoleon explained, almost bashfully, "when I met Charlotte, my heart had come home."

And the sophisticated Mr. Solo had become a vigilant father to his three princesses: Julia was their scholar, focused on a career in education; Lydia the sensitive artist; and young Vanessa sported simultaneous crushes on her soccer coach and Nicholas Kuryakin.

# # # # #

When Emily recounted their courtship, she always began dreamily. "I saw him across a crowded room. I recognized him as the 'Reclusive Founder of Vanya.' Mystery surrounded him like fog, and I wondered, 'why is that attractive, accomplished man alone?' Then my heart-lurched-and I knew that here was a man I could spend my whole life getting to know."

With uncharacteristic boldness, Emily approached his table and in flawless French asked for a job.

Now, Emily did not need a job. She had, in fact, just finished a very promising interview for her dream job, junior translator at the U.N. The cappuccino she sipped was her personal celebration.

And Illya did not need a translator, himself fluent in a variety of languages. Although she lacked Italian, which was essential in the fashion trade (he later advised her that her proficiency in German would be better served in an electronics firm) she had beautifully deep kitten-gray eyes, a voice musical in any language, and gracefully expressive hands.

Surrounded by glamorous models in his daily work, they were merely furniture to display the designs. Illya had not paid attention to a woman in a long time. Perhaps too long, he was beginning to think. Their conversation drifted into Czech, and Emily mentioned that her grandparents had fled the country after Dubcek's Prague Spring and the Communist invasion of 1968. "I did a term paper on it."

"I was an operative there...so young..." he remembered, and she was such a lovely listener, her entire soul intent on his words, breathing in rhythm together, as tales long-contained flooded out.

"By the way, do you speak English?" He finally inquired.

She smiled, leaned closer and flirted under her lashes. "Better than that-I speak Shakespeare."

The cashier was counting his cash drawer, clanging each coin noisily until Illya caught his impatient gaze. "Methinks we must needs get thee hence. As security chief of Vanya, it is my responsibility to accompany prospective employees home when work keeps them out after dark."

"And do Vanya employees often work after dark?"

"Only voluntarily."

Emily had never been so bold or flirtatious in her life-but she knew instinctively that she must press forward now or he would drift out of her life forever. "Where do I sign?"

# # # # #

These days, Emily drifted in the painless narcotic sea on sweet waves of memory…

They met regularly, Illya maintaining the fiction that their courtship was an extended job interview. Emily wondered whether he was trying to protect her or himself. Finally, it was Emily who proposed, two months to the day after they first met. She cornered him by candlelight in a cozy jazz cafe and whispered those three little words…. " Darling, I'm pregnant."

Panic, puzzlement, and pain raced across Illya's face. He had always been scrupulously shy and avoided most romantic entanglements. Their relationship had not reached that level of intimacy. There was only one reasonable, honorable course of action: he would track down this man and kill him.

She leaned across the table, loosened his grip from the edge, and gazed intently into his eyes. "Think how you would feel if those words were true. I want children, Illya. Your children. I want you to marry me. "

Illya Kuryakin did the best and only impulsive thing he had ever done in his entire life. They took a long, slow drive to Connecticut that weekend and found a justice of the peace.

# # # # #

There was a gentle rap at Kuryakin's door, then a more forceful one. It persisted and finally startled Illya awake. He was surprised to find himself in a living room chair. Another pain-racked night with Emily had diminished his sense of time and place. Stumbling, he unlatched the door to admit Charlotte Solo, just as she was fumbling with the spare key.

"My dear Illya, you look like hell."

"Always a pleasure to see you, too." He was too pale, slurring his words and squinting against the sunlight. Charlotte led him firmly back to his chair, and pulled up a seat beside him. Her daughter Lydia was a design intern at Vanya, the elite international fashion house that Illya had founded after his bitter resignation from UNCLE. Although she was pretty enough to model, Lydia preferred expression through pen and fabric. Charlotte could see that Lydia had not exaggerated when she told her mother that Illya's zombie state was alarming the staff.

"How's our girl today?"

"Unconscious. The doctor just increases the medication. It's the only time she's out of pain." It was as if all the feeling had been ironed out of his once-expressive voice.

Charlotte hustled out of her sweater and headed for the pantry. "I'm going to warm up my fabulous soup-secret recipe-then I'm going to spoon feed you if necessary, so do not squirm or you'll splash dumplings all over. Then I am going to tuck you into bed and I will sit with Emily. Napoleon is out of town so I can spend the night. And the girls will be over after school. You'll have the entire Solo Sisters Cleaning Crew to tackle chores."

"Please, Charlotte-really, we have a woman-"

"I know, she tidies up twice a week. But she does not do laundry or-" she sniffed at the refrigerator in disgust-"cook, obviously."

When Illya concentrated on his coordination, he managed to get the hot broth into his mouth. It was stout and salty. "I've had to move into the guest room," he confided mournfully. Their big antique bed held neither pleasure nor peace anymore. "She moans and whimpers into her pillow to muffle it, but I can feel the bed shake when she sobs. The pain pills make her so nauseous. Her gentle, accomplished hands, all twisted like claws. She's curled into this little ball of pain. And I am so damned helpless! God, Charlotte, we used to save whole empires and I can't save this one woman. I'm failing her. "

Charlotte knew it was time for sleep, not platitudes or psychology. "C'mon, upsy-daisy," she tugged him gently out of the chair and led him down the hall.

"Can't, Charlotte...must-"

"Must sleep. Emily needs your strength, and you won't have any if you don't sleep and eat properly. .." before she could finish Mother Lecture #5, Illya passed out across the bed. He slept for two days.

# # # # #

Illya spotted the silhouette against the gray sky. It was one of those muddy-misty days in the Connecticut marshes that surrounded the Kuryakins' 1870 restored cottage. He sloshed across the spongy ground to join his son in Emily's garden. Brittle, brown vines cracked and withered to the touch. "Spring's late."

"It's dead." Nick kicked at a plastic bag stuffed with weeds. "Everything's dead here. I can't look at dead stuff any more."

"You've done a fine job," his father observed.

Nick shrugged. "She wouldn't want the weeds to win."

Illya knelt in the mud and brushed aside some crinkled brown leaves to uncover the periwinkle she'd planted last year. Tiny purple blossoms and shiny jade leaves.

"I don't have time to keep up with all this, with school and all. And you sure don't. Maybe we should get somebody..."

"I know, Nick," he sighed. "I just can't have a stranger poking around in your mother's garden. "

Nick smiled in memory. "When I was little, Mom used to come out here for some peace and quiet. But I'd toodle out after her, chattering, digging up worms, yanking up flowers. We'd walk back to the house and she'd make cocoa and we'd rock to the music, and read ..." suddenly he felt so old. "I miss those days."

"I know. The house used to be so peaceful. Now it's just quiet. "

The wind picked up and they shivered. Illya put a tentative arm across Nick's shoulder. "Let's go in. I can make cocoa."

"I'm almost done out here. I'll catch up with you." Illya set off alone back up the hill. Nick knelt over the sprouting lillies and watered them with tears.

# # # # #

Lydia knocked at his study door and Napoleon could see she was troubled. Sweet Lydia took everything to heart, he thought.

"Daddy, Uncle Illya hasn't been to the office for a couple weeks."

"Well, honey, he's got some other priorities right now. Is there a problem at Vanya?"

"Nothing that can't be handled. But I stopped by his office today, just to see how he was, and there was this envelope on his desk. It's addressed to you."

Napoleon broke open the seal and read silently:

Napoleon, as you know, we have exhausted our efforts here and abroad. Nicholas and I thank you, but since our combined contacts have produced only sympathy, I am compelled to press the search into darker areas of inquiry.

You know the drill. I drop them something true but useless, something they can easily verify. Then I give them Something Else-in exchange for all their research on Emily's condition.

I recognize that this scheme has its difficulties. I have been out of the network for a long time, and they may not consider my information valuable any more. And Big Bird may still hold a grudge and shoot first and ask questions later. Since my actions will be considered treasonable, international security folks will be in pursuit. And yes, I am too well aware that I am just a scant few birthdays away from collecting Social Security.

But in the olden days, you and I risked everything for millions of strangers. It was our profession and our passion.

Now I have one person, one passion, and for her sake I can not leave any trail unexplored.

I trust Nicky to you.

"Damned crazy Russian," Napoleon growled, and crumpled the letter in one hand.

# # # # #

She glided languorously between his sheets, and stretched the length of her body along his bare back. Getting no response, she began to nip lightly at his neck, and his hand came up to brush her away.

"C'mon, it's too early for Guess Who...Julia?" Nicholas breathed incredulously. "Lydia?" then in panic "Van!" He bolted upright and was relieved to discover his mother's cat Clio pawing for attention. But if Clio were here, could Vanessa Solo be far behind?

The youngest Solo child bounced onto the foot of his bed. Straining to be contained in her thirteen years, she reminded Nick of a ginger kitten, playful, curious, promising grace and mystery.

"It's a beautiful day, don't sleep your life away," she sang, handing him a steaming mug.

Nick grabbed his sheet. "Geez, Van-knock, willya? You're just lucky I wear shorts."

"Yeah, just my luck," she grumbled.

"Vanessa Louise Solo, you scandalous child-" he sipped cautiously. Cocoa? "Thanks, Van, but I've graduated to coffee."

"Re-live your childhood, Old Man, it's comforting."

Nick had to admit to himself that she was correct. He swallowed and tried to resume the sophistication of age that was his advantage. "So, you lost the toss and got stuck on Nicky-duty?"

"We take turns. We just don't like you being alone way out here in the country."

"Ah, yes, the wilds of Connecticut. Yknow, the colonists around the ol' cracker barrel are talkin' statehood any day now..."

"We just wish you'd come and stay with us while-it's closer to school and-"

"Share a bathroom with the three of you? Thanks, but I'm a spoiled bachelor. Spend a night over there and I'd wake up with a make-over," he shuddered.

"We could go riding in Central Park and...you could help me come up with a new nickname. 'Van' sounds like I accommodate a family of eight," she pouted.

He considered her dilemma. "Yeah, and 'Nessie' is a sea monster," he suggested helpfully. "Maroushka?"

"Little Mouse? Oh, thanks, Nick, that is just soooo attractive. Rodent Girl. Although..." she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "this little mouse hears a lot of stuff. I'm the baby , so they don't notice I'm around, or don't think I'm bright enough to understand-"

"And I've always had the other end. I'm the Only, so I'm supposed to be sooo mature. I've heard a lot of stuff I shouldn't have to deal with-" he confessed.

Vanessa got a wicked smile. "Remember when Lydia's prom date broke his nose and she'd simply perish of terminal embarrassment if you didn't rescue her?"

"So?"

"I happen to know that two guys asked her but she faked that distress signal to you." Her triumph turned to disappointment, observing Nick's lack of indignation. "You knew?"

He shrugged. "It was a nice dance. We had a nice time. And it's family policy. Kuryakins are always bailing out Solos-" he took a pillow to the head for that jibe.

Quick as a cat, Nick twisted her down to submission. Where his hands pinned her wrists, he could feel her pulse race and the tension in her arched back. Suddenly he caught his breath and sprang back. "I gotta run," he mumbled.

"Only two places to run," Vanessa said philosophically," to or from. Where are you running, Nick?" she asked quietly, and her concern hung in the air, suspended by something neither of them understood. "I'll grab my shoes and-"

"Yknow why I like jogging,Van? Because it's Solitary. I like to be Alone."

She refused to take his hint. "Sun's getting high, better fly."

He surrendered with a sigh. "Meet you downstairs, Maroushka."

"And don't call me your little mouse, you rat.."

# # # # #

"How could he do that to me, Lottie?" Napoleon Solo was still fuming when Charlotte got home from her shop. "He knows I can't help him with this-he knows it! Good grief, if we were still in the service, I'd have to shoot him myself!"

Charlotte reached out for his arm. "Leo, he didn't do this to you, he did it for you. Think. A former network agent skips the country to sell secrets to the enemy. Who do you suppose they are going to question? You're the one who taught me about Plausible Deniability. Illya wants you in the clear. Maybe this time he's safer without you. "

"Charlotte-"

"Darling, if I thought you could help I'd be packing your toothbrush and socks. But Illya has not given you that option."

Solo sighed and sat down heavily. "Oh, Lottie, this is the first time I actually felt old. Old and helpless."

"Then think how Illya feels," she urged. "Helpless and desperate about Emily. Her body has broken down to the point where they have to wean her from the painkillers. The doctors have put her into a synthetic coma, so electrodes will block the pain signals to her brain. Try to understand, and have faith."

"'The evidence of things hoped for, the substance of things not seen'...that's your answer to everything," he grumbled.

"Yes, it is."

# # # # #

It was the deepest, darkest secret of his life: that Illya Kuryakin had been recruited by THRUSH during his summer at the Sorbonne. Specifically, by the chemistry professor he admired, Dr. Etienne D'Avril. He took the young and promising foreign student under his wing, involved him in special lab projects, even invited him to the family home outside Brussels. If anyone could get Illya in touch with THRUSH research, it would be his old mentor.

Illya had a fondness for the Belle Epoque charm of Brussels. It was one hour twenty minutes from Paris by train; three hours from London, Amsterdam, and Cologne; bilingual in French and Dutch, with English widely understood.

Downtown was compact and could easily be traversed by foot, or for .50 francs one accessed the extensive metro system. He checked into the Dix-Septieme, a 17th century hotel, and vowed to bring Emily here once she would be able to appreciate travelling again.

Then Illya went for a walk, to shake off the GNATS (Government National Security agents.) who had been tailing him since LeHarvre airport. Solo had nicknamed them gnats, because they were annoying but easily eluded or brushed aside.

He ducked into the Galleries de St Hubert, the world's first and most beautiful shopping mall, built in 1846. The arched glass and gold roof sheltered from the perpetual Belgian drizzle. Among the bookstalls and fashion houses were the famous petit chocolate shoppes that served royalty worldwide. He dodged the exhibits of new artists and tea time tango dancers.

"Emily would love this place," he reminded himself of his mission. He crossed town and found his way to a modest country house and was announced by an aging servant. Entering, Illya was startled to find himself in an elegant bath chamber.

A woman's head emerged from the sunken blue marble tub, covered with layers of fragrant, blood-red rose petals.

"Illya...30 years late, eh?" her voice was familiar, but had achieved a velvet purr she had not had as a child.

"Adele?" he questioned cautiously. "I was expecting your father..."

"Alas, Illya, I buried him two months ago."

Kuryakin absorbed the shock and his rising despair. "I'm so sorry. He was a great scientist, and an inspiring teacher..."

"Not inspiring enough to persuade you. He followed your career, disappointed you'd joined the other side," she scrutinized his expression, "But it is more than my loss that clouds your face. "

"I had hoped to obtain certain research that your father's associates are working on..."

"Ah, Papa left THRUSH years ago. He was only a part-time consultant, after all. With the end of the cold war, and the Bush recession, the Big Bird has scaled down operations considerably. Of course, we still get the newsletter," she grinned like a cat. "Ah, Cherie, you broke my heart when you left."

Illya shook his head. "Adele, you were seven years old. I taught you guitar chords, read you fairy tales."

"Alors," she shrugged, dismissing her mended heart. The French are a practical people. "Papa retired from the university, but he kept a lab here, pet projects that others had abandoned, or could not get funded. He was working on a serum for a nerve disease you might find interesting..." Illya's heart started beating again. "There's a packet on the table-" she gestured inside.

He retrieved the thick file with his name hand-printed across it.

"But how...? Can it be this simple?"

"Mais oui, Cheri. It IS this simple, This time. No master plot, no diabolical villain. Just a rare disease, and an untested cure. This time, you can preserve your wife, and your integrity. You'll stay for dinner?"

"Please understand my urgency to get back to the States. "

"But of course, Madame Kuryakin."

"And please accept our eternal gratitude, Adele."

She nodded graciously.

"Ah, do you suppose your fine feathered friends could leak a memo, saying that I was rude and uncooperative, my mission here worthless, so that I don't need to be shot by either side?"

"Naturellement. And tell your son to watch his chemistry grade. That last quiz..."she rolled her eyes in that helpless Gallic fashion.

Illya was puzzled. "He hasn't seen his mid-terms yet. How-"

"A little bird told me."

# # # # #

The technicians unplugged Emily from her electronic coma and the serum was introduced into her IV. Illya reflected that he had spent a disproportionate amount of his life beside hospital beds. Usually it was Napoleon. Twice in the last 20 years, he had held Emily's hand, reluctant to tell her that the anticipated babies were lost to them forever. Now her life-and his-depended on an experimental drug from a dead part-time THRUSH consultant with illegible handwriting.

He read. He drowsed. A quintet of Solos visited on and off to keep him alive with hope and coffee. He waited. He prayed. At about 13 hours, Nick touched his shoulder. "Time for a break, Dad."

"The crisis could come at any time now, if I've understood D'Avril's notes."

"There's a crisis downstairs. Aunt Charlotte is holding the staff hostage with her cream of broccoli soup. You're the only one who can take her down." His son received a sleepy smile.

"So. What is Psychology 101 at Columbia teaching you about stress and sleep deprivation?" his father inquired.

"Not as much as I'm learning here in the field."

"Nick, even with this new treatment, it will be some time before your mother can return to us where she belongs..."

"Swinging bachelors til then, huh Dad?"

"Indeed. I, ah...understand you're interested in theater. There's a revival of A Man for all Seasons off-Broadway-maybe some evening-" he cleared his throat-"invite a date, if you wish-"

Nick crossed the bridge. "How about just you and me, yknow, a couple of guys for all seasons?"

Illya was touched. "And a late supper? I believe we have a chemistry quiz to discuss..."

# # # # #

Twenty-two hours.

There should have been a response by now.

Had the serum failed? Had he failed? The blond rubbed his eyes. Napoleon was really a better gambler than he was-cool and nerveless.

Then a touch, lighter than butterfly wings fluttered across his hands. "Monsieur...?" she murmured "je voudrais travailler avec vous-"

# # # # # #

"The doctors insist on a week of observation, at least." Kuryakin sternly agreed. "Because once I take you home, Madame, we are never coming back here again. However," he continued," I have brought your own robe and slippers; wrangled extended visiting hours, and this...well, it's not champagne but it is celebratory." He poured two plastic cups of diet white grape soda . He took her hands and pulled her gently from the bed, steadying her against his body.

Emily giggled. "If you're pulling me out of bed, it has been too long."

Nick started in the door then backed off, studying his parents silently. They swayed together to a scratchy sax recording of "April in Paris." His father's tense expression finally softened to peace, and hers, content to be wrapped in his arms forever.

Nick closed the door quietly and padded down the hall. It was still early. Maybe Vanessa would like some cocoa.

finis


End file.
